Page 28 of The Boss (Straight Men #2)

The house was exactly what Chantelle wanted. A sprawling 19th-century mansion in College Hill, stately and refined, with columned porches and windows tall enough to drink in the late afternoon light. It had history, legacy—something solid, meant to last. The kind of house that didn’t bend to the passage of time but stood through it, unmoving, unshaken. A statement both symbolic and literal.

The realtor, Laura, an attractive brunette in her late forties with impeccable posture and the kind of smooth, controlled voice that made every detail sound like a promise, led us through the cavernous rooms. “This property was built in 1882 by the Whitmore family,” she explained as we stepped into the grand foyer, our footsteps muffled by the Persian rug stretched across the gleaming hardwood. “It’s had only three owners since then, each one taking great care to preserve its unique character. The molding is all hand-carved mahogany, and the chandeliers were imported from France in the early twentieth century.”

Chantelle ran her fingers along the sculptured banister as we ascended the grand staircase. “The woodwork is stunning,” she mused. “Do you know if it’s all original?”

Laura nodded, a pleased smile on her lips. “Yes, every inch of it. The previous owners took great care in preservation. The paneling in the library was even restored using traditional techniques to maintain its authenticity.”

Chantelle glanced toward the high ceilings, the shrewd lawyer at work, no detail escaping her eye. “And structurally? No hidden surprises?”

Laura let out a knowing chuckle. “No, no surprises. My ex-husband was an architect, so I know what to look for. This house has good bones—solid foundation, no major renovations that compromised the integrity of the original build. It’s been updated where it counts, but nothing that takes away from its charm.”

Chantelle drank in every word, eyes gleaming as she inspected the wainscoting. “It’s perfect,” she murmured, barely containing her excitement. “It has charm. Personality. And it’s in the right neighborhood.” She turned to me, expectant. “Don’t you think, Isaac?”

I nodded because this was the part where I smiled, where I indulged her excitement and agreed that, yes, this house was everything we’d dreamed of. Even when the words felt foreign on my tongue, like I was delivering a line in someone else’s play.

Chantelle kept moving ahead with Laura, their conversation shifting to logistics—offers, closing costs, potential restorations. I followed behind, distant, detached, taking in the house without really seeing it.

This was our future. But as I stood in the vast, light-drenched parlor, all I could think about was a cramped Miami hotel room. The press of a warm, sweat-slicked body against mine. The sound of my name, whispered in the dark, reverent and raw.

I let out a slow breath, shoving the thought down before it could take root.

This was the right thing. This was my life.

And Chris Landry had no place in it.

I signed the papers, put down the deposit on the house, and let Chantelle pull me into a nearby coffee shop to celebrate. She was all smiles, her voice a bright hum against the steady murmur of the crowd. I sipped my coffee, offering a weak curve of my mouth that felt foreign to my own face.

Then, through the clatter of cups and low din of conversation, I heard it. A slow, mournful guitar, curling through the air like smoke. A moment later, Chris Isaak’s voice floated over the noise, and the words landed like a punch in the gut.

‘I never dreamed that I’d meet somebody like you…’

My grip tightened around the cup.

‘And I never dreamed that I’d lose somebody like you…’

I clenched my teeth, staring down at the dark surface of my coffee like it held all the answers. It felt like falling—falling deep, falling hard, falling through a black hole of half-forgotten memories, and landing on one perfect moment lost forever in time.

‘No, I don’t wanna fall in love… with you.’

The universe had a sick sense of humor.

* * *

The next morning, I was halfway through reviewing the latest financial reports when my phone buzzed. Paul’s name flashed on the screen. If he was calling, it was probably about the bachelor party he insisted on throwing, despite me telling him not to.

I leaned back in my chair, pressing the phone to my ear. “Don’t tell me—the strippers canceled?”

Paul snorted. “Nah, they just heard it was for you and decided to charge double.”

I smirked, loosening my tie. “Remind me why I still put up with your bullshit?”

“Um, because I’m the best friend you ever had, Mr. Big Shot CEO?”

“Oh, screw you. You’ve been riding my coattails since freshman year. If anything, I should be charging you for my presence.”

“Right, because your hulking linebacker ass was such a hot commodity. Who carried the team to victory more times, the guy throwing the passes, or the guy smashing into people like a deranged buffalo?”

“Buffalo? That’s rich, coming from a guy who spent half his career flat on his back after a bad tackle.”

Paul snickered. “Hey, I was delicate! A precision instrument. You were a goddamn battering ram.”

“Delicate, my ass.” I laughed. “And even so, I was still better with the ladies.”

“Bullshit. You just had that ‘brooding asshole’ thing going for you. Women with daddy issues are into that.”

“Okay, delicate little prima donna, was there a reason for this call, or did you just want to practice roasting me for your best man speech?”

Paul chuckled, but then his tone shifted, a little more serious. “Well, I have good news and bad news. Good news is, I survived a near-death experience. Bad news is… I can’t come to the wedding.”

I straightened, an edge of concern creeping in. “What’s going on?”

There was a pause, then he sighed. “I fucked up. Went on a ski trip to Aspen last weekend—”

I rubbed my temple, irritation flaring to life beneath the surface. “Jesus.”

“Yeah. Took a nasty fall. Fractured my tibia and my fibula. Clean break, surgery, the whole shebang.”

A deep breath escaped me. “Shit, Paul.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. Doc says no travel for the next couple of months.” Another pause. “I hate to bail on you, man, but there’s no way I can fly out.”

I dragged a hand down my face, absorbing that. Paul had been my best friend since college, the one guy I actually trusted, and now—he wasn’t going to be there. “Damn,” I muttered. “That sucks.”

“Yeah. I feel like shit about it, but unless you want me rolling down the aisle in a wheelchair and a full cast—”

I huffed out a humorless laugh. “Would’ve made for some interesting photos.”

“Right? Chantelle would’ve loved that.”

I sighed. Paul didn’t even have to say it outright—Chantelle would never tolerate anything less than perfection, and we both knew it. “Well, it is what it is. Just focus on healing. We’ll grab a drink when you’re back on your feet.”

“Damn right we will. Anyway, sorry, buddy. I know this puts you in a tight spot. You’ll figure something out, though, as usual. I’m sure you’ve got options.”

I made a noncommittal sound. I didn’t. Not really. Paul had been my one real friend, and without him, I was left with acquaintances, colleagues—people who knew me, but not in any way that mattered. I had work connections. Business partners. Associates who were more than happy to shake my hand at a gala and sip overpriced scotch while talking market projections. But I didn’t have close friends. Not the kind who stood next to you on your wedding day.

Then, almost immediately, an idea formed. A stupid, reckless idea. One I already hated myself for considering. My stomach twisted.

No. That was a mistake.

And yet, ten minutes later, I was in the elevator, knowing I shouldn’t, but doing it anyway.

* * *

I found Chris at his desk, laughing with his coworkers. The sound, warm and unguarded, sent something twisting in my gut. He looked at ease, his posture relaxed, his smile unrestrained—so different from the way he’d been with me lately. One of the other guys—Darren was his name, I think—was leaning in close, saying something that made Chris chuckle, their shoulders almost touching. I clenched my jaw, an ugly spark of irritation flaring before I could tamp it down.

The others noticed me first. The moment they did, the energy in the room shifted. Their laughter died, and they scattered like startled prey, mumbling excuses as they slunk back to their desks. Chris remained still, but the change in his demeanor was unmistakable. His smile faded, his shoulders tensed, and when he finally turned to face me, the light in his eyes dimmed.

Fuck, how I hated that. Hated knowing I was the reason.

“Can I have a word with you?” My voice came out rougher than intended. I cleared my throat.

For a second, I thought he might refuse. His hesitation was brief but telling. But he wasn’t the type to cause a scene, not in front of his team. So he pushed back his chair, his expression carefully blank. “Sure.”

I led him to the first empty conference room. He stepped inside, and I closed the door behind us, the soft click unnervingly loud. The air felt thick, charged with something I didn’t want to name.

Chris turned to face me, arms crossed, expression wary. “What do you want, Zac?”

I faltered. I knew I should get straight to the point, say what I came here to say—but his presence still affected me in a way I couldn’t deny. “How, um… how’ve you been doing?”

Chris blinked, like he hadn’t expected that. “Fine.” His tone was cautious, like he was waiting for the trap.

I nodded, tucking my hands into my pockets. “So… what’s new?”

He gave me a look. “Really?”

I exhaled through my nose, tilting my head toward the space outside. “You and Darren seem pretty tight.” The words were casual, offhand, but I felt the sharp edge beneath them.

Chris raised an eyebrow. “He’s my coworker.”

“Seemed like more than that.”

A smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “What’s it to you?”

I shrugged. “Nothing.” I wanted to press, to demand something I had no right to, but Chris was already shifting his weight, brows drawing together.

“Are we done with the small talk?” he asked, voice edged with impatience. “Because I doubt you pulled me in here just to chat about my life.”

I breathed out, forcing myself back on track. “No,” I admitted. “I need a best man.”

His brows pulled together. “Excuse me?”

“My best friend—Paul—he broke both his legs. He can’t make it.”

Chris stared at me like I’d just spoken another language. Then, suddenly, he let out a sharp laugh—more disbelief than amusement. “And you want me to do it?”

I forced a nod. “Yes.”

His laugh turned into something closer to a scoff. “Wow. Do you even hear yourself? Do you even care how fucked-up this is?”

I stepped closer, the space between us growing smaller, heavier. “I care.”

His eyes glistered with something unreadable. “Then why me?”

Because I had no one else. Because despite everything, he was the closest thing I had to a real friend. Because the thought of standing at that altar with some near-stranger beside me felt unbearably hollow. Because I needed him near me, even if I couldn’t have him. “I need… someone I can trust,” I said instead. “You know how to handle yourself. You know me. And I know this is a lot to ask, but I wouldn’t be asking if I had another option.”

Chris searched my face like he was waiting for the catch, like this was just another way for me to twist the knife, a toxic power play of some sort. But then something in him shifted. A flicker of something resigned. “Okay,” he said, quieter now. “I’ll do it.”

I hadn’t realized how tense I was until those words landed. Relief settled over me, but it was short-lived.

Chris crossed his arms again, studying me. “Not just for you,” he added. “For myself. I think I need to see it—to see you marrying her. Maybe that’ll help me let go.”

A sharp pang lanced through my chest, but I ignored it. This was what I wanted, wasn’t it? For him to move on? I swallowed. “Thank you.”

Chris gave a small dip of his head, but the air between us felt heavy, laden with things neither of us could afford to say. I needed to leave. I needed to turn and walk away before I did something I couldn’t take back.

Instead, I lingered.

“Are you heading back to Maine for Christmas?” I asked. The words felt insignificant, but I needed to hear his voice a little longer.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Yeah, for a week. I want to see my family. I miss my home.”

A strange, hollow feeling settled in my stomach. “Right.” I wavered for a moment. “That’s good.”

Chris inclined his head, watching me like he was trying to figure something out. A beat of silence stretched, and I knew this was where it ended. I should let him go. I should turn and walk out that door. But my feet betrayed me. Instead of stepping back, I took half a step closer.

Chris’s lips parted, eyes locking onto mine. His throat worked, like he was about to say something—but then, just as quickly, he stepped away.

“See you around, Zac,” he murmured.

My throat tightened. I nodded once, turned, and forced myself to walk out. Every step felt heavier than the last. But I was doing the right thing. I was.

Then why the fuck did it feel like I was bleeding out?